This Is Why I'm Like This: Children's Theatre

      To begin, I was not supposed to direct Willy Wonka at Field Elementary school. I usually direct at East elementary, but our bell schedule changed this year, and they couldn't work around it in the fall. Same bell schedule issue at Field, however it no longer mattered  at the time they emailed me, I guess. I was not informed as to why, just asked to do.

       I was supposed to be in the Who chorus of  Seussical this weekend, but instead I was at Wonka with the elementary kids. The two companies are linked to the same church, music director and producer, so I always call one the "Adult Company", which may be accurate. I did Godspell two years ago with the adult company and had a blast. It challenged me and kept my mind off of the dismantling of my theatre teacher career. I had just done Steel Magnolias in Conifer and had a glorious experience there, and was thinking maybe I'd try being an actor again. After Godspell I auditioned a few times with no luck and  quickly decided  that was folly: I'm not going to be an actor again. Since I'm not directing at the high school, I only work with two children's theatre companies in Denver and Boulder to feed the theatre beast. I teach and direct, and it's fine. I'm not in charge, I don't have to design and teach tech and feed people and handle breakdowns and fry my corneas looking at lights and deal with admin and sweep the stage. I'm just part of a stable of People Who Do Theatre and  I work with a lot of "formers" ( "Former Rockett", "Former Tony winner", etc) I am a "Former High School Theatre Teacher", so I suppose I fit in now.
       The "Littles" show this past summer, Annie , was the first time I was in the program as a language arts teacher. That was harsh, seeing it in print. Everyone keeps saying it's what I do, not who I am, blah blah blah, whatever. I keep getting hired at the Highlands Ranch company do to small kids, and the other company uses me for high school, which is my actual preference. But money is money and I Am Theatre's Whore, so sure, sure, I'll direct the Littles. I get it, the other "Formers" look much cooler in a program than "A language arts teacher". They are also actual musical theatre people who like musical theatre.
        Anyway. Sorry, I almost toddled back down the the Feel Sorry For Me Freeway.
        So further proof that I am not to be an actor, when I auditioned for Seussical I was cast in the Who chorus. OK, that's fine, I really truly like this group and I'm happy to contribute however I can. Then, in December, right before the first rehearsal for Seuss, I received an email from the Artistic Director of the children's theatre. This is where I remind you that both shows share administration. The music director on Seuss is the Producer of the children's program, so there is no way both parties were unaware that I was to be in the Who chorus. OK. So I get an email asking if I will direct Willy Wonka at Field elementary. The show dates are the same as Seuss.
          Seuss is for free. Wonka is paid.
          "Theatre's Whore".
          Also, they need me to direct and choreograph, something went wonky (HA) with whomever had been slated to do it. Or nobody had been slated to do it, I don't know, the email indicated an emergency situation.
          I will pause while all of my students, Jim Farrell and my children laugh their heads off at "choreograph".
          You are pretty desperate if you want me to choreograph.
           They'll pay me both salaries, the email said.
           Done.
           I send the Seuss director a  note dropping the show, probably pissing her off, as she is part of the stable that works for both companies as well and likely doesn't appreciate the poaching that just happened. But whatever, not my circus, not my monkeys. I like everybody involved, I'm not grumpy or bitter, I just like money more than I do no money.
           See above: "Theatre's Whore".
           Thus signed on, I realize that I am also teaching classes for this company two nights a week at the church. Rehearsals do not conflict until tech week, but I overlook that, figuring they know that and the SM will run the show that night so I can go down the street and teach.
             Turns out, there is no SM, either....there is a TD who is doing set and sound and there are costumers, thank God and hooorah, but....OK. So. The props master is also a teacher with them, so she will take my class so I can stay for the final dress, but then we don't have a props master at the final dress. Or an SM, and I am both choreographer and director. With no Stage Manager.
           Very early on I ask if can get my daughter, Harper, to come in and volunteer her time to help me manage the rehearsals. Wonka is a rough show with too many kids disengaged for periods of time. It's not like Annie where mostly everyone can be on stage all of the time. I  doubled the Bucketts as squirrels, and the Candy Kids as Oompas and crossed my fingers. Thank God for Harper, she was able to take the Oompas and work them while the music director took the ensemble and I could work blocking with Wonka and the winners. Sometimes the Producer would have to help out, because, well, because there was no SM and I'm the director and choreographer and Harper has a job that pays her she needs to sometimes be at.
           Luckily for all of us, I've done this show before and I know how these "Jr" things work best. My experience at East had taught me well, and I felt like I could manage this show...but this is not East, and these kids are different. So I adjust again, and we seem to understand each other
           Then the flu hit. In six weeks, I never had a rehearsal with all the Oompas, and our performance was missing an Oompa who was home with a high fever. I honestly have no idea how many Oompas I was supposed to have. One dropped the first week, another was reassigned to being  a candy kid and I added one to replace one and at least one was always sick. It became a joke to Mel (props) Harp and I, that any number of kids could enter as Oompas at any time, or none could. Also the rest of the cast kept doing the choreography even when asked not to do so. And they are not adept enough to adjust when they are missing Oompas. They were in two lines, and sometimes stage right would have two Oompas and left would have four and I'd just laugh, because what else can you do? These are not professionals who return to rehearsal like they never missed a day. These are kids who lose their minds, forget where they are, ask random questions unrelated to the show and boss each other around, or jump off of the stairs, or or or or....sigh. It's fine. It's rough work, but the sweet kids who are truly dedicated are truly dedicated.
             I had decided, for a variety of personal reasons, that this summer will be my last summer with this company, or any company.  I need to either decide to be a language arts teacher or find a full time theatre gig, but lang arts all day and then doing theatre is not fun. Lang arts actually takes more planning and energy than running a theatre, largely because I have to plan.  It's not accessible to me like theatre.  In theatre I would walk in some days with no idea about what we needed to do that day, and in ten minutes I'd have it figured out, a power point excavated, etc. It's just not hard to do, it's time consuming because it's theatre, but I'm not scrambling online for lesson plans, or hitting up my colleagues or standing in the copy room at 7 am trying to plan when I do theatre. I just do it. But lang arts is hours of planning and then grading, my God grading, my eyes have deteriorated at an alarming rate this year as I squint through google docs to grade. It's exhausting, and that's where I am with lang arts,  exhaustion, and when I'm off, I want to go home.  I also don't feel like I'm making any kind of a difference, but all teachers feel that I guess. Only arty or elective teachers seem to know their worth. As I learn more about my core colleagues I understand how common it is to feel like you've had no impact at all. That adds to the exhaustion for me. There is no pay off, so why am I killing myself trying to get them to give a crap about Elie Wiesel? It's just making me grumpy and I end up  telling them to get off my lawn.
          I  had hoped staying with the children's company could feed the jonez, but I  realize that it's high school  and older that I love. So this year, 2019, theatre has become a second (and third) job and nothing more.  Again with "Theatre's Whore" , I take money but not pleasure from it.  I work alongside these young people who are so enthusiastic, willing to give up so much time and energy to help with a show, and I honestly think "I'm too old for this crap." The kids are getting more and more disrespectful at every age---I get to say that, I work with first grade through 12th, so I get to say that--and I've lost my patience. That's it, that's the crux: I have no more patience. Which means it's time to go, as children's theatre takes PATIENCE.
          So in my mind I made this vague plan to stop accepting shows and teaching offers, and just be a lang arts teacher. I started entering the HGTV Montana Dream Home Contest twice daily, and for a week straight I entered daily sweepstakes for stuff I didn't really want, but would be happy to have (A Jeep, flooring, a Honda) whatever daily sweepstakes popped up. I figured I could win a house and then I could work in a gift shop in the resort town. Harper is a massage therapist, resort towns need massage therapists. They need accountants, so Jim could work. Genoa can find a small theatre or start a small theatre or live in Vegas and come visit or whatever. It was a solid plan.
          We did not win the Montana home.
          Oh well, it's fine.
          I have friends out of jobs, my children are beautiful and strong but struggling and the cats are all old. It's fine. We are all employed at the moment, and we have a safety net for anything unexpected,  and two newly renovated bathrooms. We are supportive and the family has each other. It's fine.
          They cancelled the Saturday show yesterday-Friday-due to a snow forecast. This school is of the type that most of the kids take the school bus, so getting there on a Saturday is rough in the first place, but if it's snowing, they won't come at all because they'll have to walk. So they made the call to cancel, making last night opening and closing.
          The parents of Mike TV and Wonka are also directors, I hear. They open enroll at this school and live in Aurora. Sheesh, really? They have chatted with me over the last few weeks,and I found out they open enroll for LHS. Specifically theatre.
          The mom looked at me and said clearly "Specifically for you. We were devastated to learn you weren't there any more."
          I shrug, "I'm there, I teach lang arts."
          She just looks at me.
          "You get me here, I get to direct the boys. It's fine."
           After the show, the entire family was there and the daughter, who I guess is an 8th grader at LHS  or maybe  9th I have no idea, shakes my hand and says "I'm so sad I don't have you." I shrug and say "You will, I teach lang arts." She tries to continue, saying Cay talked about me at musical circle, blah blah blah, and I stopped her "Look, who cares? Do you love theatre? Cool. Do it. It doesn't matter who your teacher or director is. They're always going to be different."  Then I said "Oof" because Mike TV tackled me with a hug. I got more hugs from this kid than any other and it was a delight, even tho he's exactly the height of my belly button.
          The music director, who I worked with for the first time, was all smiles.  She is a kind and patient woman whose  eight year old son was "Mr. Bundles" in Annie last summer. "I really enjoyed working with you." We were finishing strike, standing with a custodian who previously worked at LHS and therefore knows me and my history (this community is stupid connected) and is a singularly expressive person who speaks her mind, regardless of the conversation that is happening. In short: she interrupts. And she's fabulous.  She was extolling my virtues as a strong, "out of the box" thinker, told the music teacher my hair used to be rainbow colored (it was not) and how I have two middle fingers and a mohawk (metaphor) and I was laughing, delighted to hear her. She was always fun to listen to, she's older and cares not a lick for your judgment. I looked at the music teacher and said "I thought you hated me, I watered it down. You actually didn't meet me on this show." The custodian chimed in "I doubt that, we can see who you are." The music teacher added "You are bold, if that was watered down..."she smiles, and asks what we can do to make it better for the kids next year. I don't even know where I'm going to be next year, apparently it isn't Montana, but there are a lot of sweepstakes out there to enter daily.
           One of the kids' grandparents made gumball and candy jars for the team---including props and costumes. What grandparent knows to think of tech? Guess which ones. Above is the photo.
          Since Friday is closing, it's also payday. The beautiful bookkeeper handed me my check, and an additional check with Harper's name on it. I paused, "She volunteered, she makes bank as a massage therapist, it's fine."
          "We had a little extra and we have to use it. It's not much, but we appreciate her. She didn't have to come in."
            I'm frozen in place, mouth open. "Even if it's twenty five cents, it's kind. Why are you like this?"  She just smiles.
            Shit.
            I look at the beautiful woman who is always so generous and kind, and I say  in my best Al Pacino voice "The more I try to get out, the more you pull me back in."
           She just smiles, because she doesn't know my mind, or what I've been thinking. "You can't leave us. We love you."
           UGH.
           This is why I'm like this....
       

This Is Why I'm Like This: First Period

   8.31 a.m.
   Attendance, blah blah blah. A few more "What are we doing today?"/"Whatever I say" exchanges.


   I have been teaching ten minutes when the social studies teacher aka our union rep aka former football coach aka Big Foot Fan, walks into my room. He takes up most of the room  upon entry. His size is one reason I love that he is our union rep. I can tell by  his face he is not here on business, he's here to harass. I love it when he does this. He begins immediately:
    "The hell is that smell? Potpourri? Why is it so dark in here?Do you know what kind of germs are on that couch? What's that music? Yoga? Hippies.  Why aren't these desks lined up in a manner in which these kids should be trained? We need workers who can sit in rows and do what they're told, Comrade. Where am I, a classroom or Michael's craft store?" Having delivered his theme, he smiles, high fives me and exits.
    He hates my air wic, and admittedly it is strong. But it has to be stronger than the smell of teenager, so there you go.  I play Zen music most days, as music with words interferes with the writing process. My desks are in pods. As indicated before, I do not use my fluorescent lights, I use the windows and the ambient light of my four lamps.The kids tell me his desks are in lines, his florescents are on and his walls are bare. And they love him. He is a massive human being who is truly big hearted. He is also crazy smart and the guy you want on your side if you are ever sideways with admin. Trust me, I know from whence I speak.

      When he exists, a voice speaks up from somewhere in the classroom, sounding very informed and conspiratorial. They're annoying when they're like this. "Did you know you can get him off topic if you ask about Big Foot? My brother told me. "
      I reply, "Did you know he is manipulating you into believing you are getting him off topic?"
      Blink blink.
      I shake my head, smiling. Freshmen are so gullible. And these guys are supposedly Honors.

    Back to class. OK. The Hero Hall of Fame Speech. They have to nominate someone from their life.  They've just watched Finding Joe about Joseph Campbell,and heard how so few people have traversed a real hero's journey, yet I'm asking them to identify someone from their own life. I may be watering this down a bit, and I am getting a lot of cancer stories, "My mom got her Masters Degree" stories, "My dad started his own business", etc. But these count, and at minimum the kids had to spend time talking with their parents. Maybe some good speeches will emerge. Maybe not. Who cares? They had to have a conversation with someone face to face, Immma call it a win. I'm starting to think this is a bad unit, but I can't not do it as it's a pilot for all 9th grade, so I must follow through. But how many speeches can I hear about graduate school? I feel like I've failed, these kids have missed the point. Sigh.

      One of my students, Ali*, approaches wide eyed, which is just how she is. I know her father is from somewhere in the Eastern block, he has that delightful accent I love so very much. Our custodian, Selena*, is from somewhere in the Eastern block also:old Czech republic, Kazakhstan, Bosnia, Croatia...that part of the world changes hands a lot, I'm not racist I just can't keep up. She has this magnificent broken accent that I have always adored.  Ali's dad  had the same accent and I kept him on the phone a bit longer just so he would talk to me. Anyway,  years ago, Selena, the custodian, came up to me in the hallway. 
    "You are teeter?" she looks up at me, she is fairly short     
     I smile "Yes, I'm theatre." I've had enough exchanges with her I can understand her when she talks to me. All theatre teachers are tight with the custodial staff.
    "Richard tell me about piano. I no clean teeter. Is ghost." I nod and tell her that's fine. She presses on "Richard no clean teeter.  Is Ghost," she repeats, emphatically, as if we are in a Wes Craven film and I am the idiot who walks into rooms without turning on the lights, regardless of the warnings I have received from friends and colleagues.
     I guess I should explain.  Many years ago Richard came into the theatre after 10 pm one night and heard the piano playing. The piano is stored under the stage. At ten pm it is not possible that a student is down there practicing in the dark ---in what we call The Pit Of Despair. Being a brave, combat veteran kind of man, he marched down the aisle to the stage itself to investigate. When he got to the front row of the house, the piano stopped. He paused, and in his words "turned and high tailed it out of there." Of course he shared his story with his colleagues, thus prompting Selena to inform me that she won't be cleaning the theatre. Is ghost. And I love that accent. So when I called home to talk to this student's father, and I discovered he had the same accent, I was delighted.
       Ali is standing in front of me, wide eyed, wishing to ask about her topic. "My dad is from Bosnia. He was there during the genocide. Can I do my Hero's Journey speech about that?"
        Blink. Blink.
        "Umm....."
        "He's had at least three Hero's Journeys. He had to get here, and he had to learn English. Also...he was forced to fight in Bosnia...."
         Blink. Blink.
         Oh man, that got real quickly, didn't it?
         So while I may have failed at this unit, this girl is gonna bring it all home with her speech about her father's struggle during the Bosnian war.
          I suddenly hear Hudson from Aliens in my head "Why don't you put her in charge?"



*All names have been changed to protect my ass.

Why I Departed Facebook

   Because nobody listens, and cruelty to animals is not something I can take any more.

   I also need to focus on panicking over Ireland and The Renovation That Never Ends.

This Is Why I'm Like This: Weekday 5 am-8.30 am

5.30am-8.26am

Wake up  with the third alarm. Wonder why I always set it so early.

Do one Down Dog to prove I'm still in shape, alive, capable.

Open gun safe.

Retrieve meds from gun safe. Put meds in robe pocket and close gun safe, as history has proven I will leave bottle out and /or not close gun safe ,which has a gun and meds in it. (You thought I was getting a gun, didn't you? I live in Colorado, not Texas.)

Walk straight to kitchen to put meds in little blue box.

Start coffee.

Feed dogs.

Put dogs out.

If  there are clean dishes, unload dishwasher.

Walk back down hall, feed cats.

Shower. Or not. What day is it and does it matter? This is a real moment, sometimes I just can't shower.

Back to kitchen, let dogs in.

Try to remember where I left my car key and building keys. I know better than to vary the routine, but I come home after two jobs and frequently drag things upstairs that should have stayed in my car.

Get dressed.

This is an event, as I have chosen my Getup the night before in my mind. I do not ensemble, I do not outfit, I Getup and I do it on purpose. (This is a word I got from my mom, who would frequently ask me "What is that Getup you are wearing?) All work and no play makes me act out in my wardrobe. ("Play" being theatre, see what I did there?)

Today it is red pants, zebra shirt, brown plaid jacket and leopard shoes. Decide I need a fushia cardigan, black patterned head band and orange scarf to complete the look. Add my knitted 1980's fingerless gloves.  We are in second semester, I have yet to have anyone comment on these choices, which are so loud they drown out my speaking voice. The clothes are loud enough to drown out their voice as well, so it's possible they have commented and I just haven't heard them.

Think it'd be good to put a curtain or something in the spare room, since every morning I feed the         cats  in my robe or jammies with no window covering. The room faces the street.

Return to kitchen, grab a yogurt and an ICE. Fill coffee mug.

Wash the coffee mug out, first,because it was in my car for several days. Every day I take a new           coffee mug until I run out, then I schlep them back into the kitchen. Or not. Sometimes I leave them in the car to ferment. It's science.

The Stevia is in the antique blue salt shaker on the ledge. I thought nobody was using that. Turns out  occasionally Jim forgets and thinks it's actually the salt. I pour it in the coffee, awaiting the day           he actually fills it with salt without telling me.

Text family good morning, any instructions about the day "Harp, I have Wonka today,meet me at Field at 3.30, thank you! Jim, don't forget to pick up tile. " Because The Renovation That Will Never End is still going on, three months later. Because It Will Never End. It cannot, it's in the title.

Walk forward downstairs, hearing Dick Van Dyke tell me not to walk downstairs sideways. Rush gate up behind me so giant dog doesn't run me over and send me tumbling to my death.

Feed downstairs cats.

They have one plastic bowl and two silver bowls, one is for water. One silver bowl has gone missing.
Look around, it's gone. Guess no water for the cats today. *

Car key is where it belongs, grab it. We all now have Subarus, the keys are the same. My key has a St. Genesius attached.

Get in the car. Move the three coffee mugs I did not take upstairs last night to make room for the new one.

Left full coffee by the cat food. Sigh.

Pause. Where are my keys to the building?

In my denim jacket in the house.

Get back out of car, go inside, walk upstairs. Think about cleaning the floors. Go upstairs frontwards.

Giant dog thinks I am home, the day just flew by, tries to greet me by knocking down gate and            running me over. Some day he's going to kill me.

Grab jacket, yep, keys are in there. Because I wore the jacket yesterday and left my bag in the car.

My building keys and badge usually go in the hippie bag. When they are not it's a bad day. Made it all the way to school one cold day,  6.30 am in the parking lot, no badge to get in. Luckily Mark the custodian had to check the ice in the parking lot about the time I arrived. He let me in the building and unlocked my room. This has happened more than once; we are becoming close. I expect a marriage proposal any day.

Walk downstairs frontwards, gate behind me so dog does not try to follow. One day he is going to kill me.

Get in car. Look at coffee mugs on the seat. Tell them that this is their home now, accept it.

Get out, go back in for full coffee mug. Cats think I'm feeding them again. They are wrong.

Switch between KOOL 105 and SIRIUS XM First Wave. DJ Bueller's Breakfast Beatmix reminds me of Rock Island. I wish I was young again. Keep driving.

I am one of the earliest arriving teachers. The bell schedule changed this year, we don't start until 8.30, but I can't break 14 years of arriving before 7 to get the theatre open, warmed up, set checked on...

...now I arrive and I enter by the science rooms because I Have Issues. I walk straight to my lang arts classroom. I see the business teacher, who is always here before I am and is also named Martin.  These morning exchanges have given us time to get to know each other after how ever many years she has been here. We've never really spoken. I have  also encountered  a counselor who arrives stupid early and runs laps in the gym. I wonder what is wrong with them, they wonder what is wrong with me,  we are three  of the earliest arriving teachers. It's all good.

Mark and Richard the custodians are working on a hallway wall, I think it's a locked retracting cage thing that is to shut the hallway off? It doesn't work. I wonder what it's for, why would you cut the hall in half? Is there a true Zombie threat? It apparently doesn't work, Mark thinks it never really did, but the principal wants it working so...they are working on it at 6.30 am. We exchange the same Zombie thought, and again it's clear he's in love with me. We have to stop meeting like this.

I am the first lang arts teacher to arrive, the halls are quiet. I unlock my door.

I turn on my Legally Blonde Lamp**, my Chinese paper lamp, my bedroom lamp and bathroom lamps. I never turn on the fluorescents in my room. Drop my hippie bag on my chair and turn on Pandora or You Tube full blast, depending on how my drive in made me feel (do I still miss Rock Island, do I hate my job, am I determined to be positive, etc) . Today it's You Tube and we're starting with Front 242 at full blast. It can be heard in the hallway, but nobody's here and I think a melted brain sounds like a solid choice this morning.

Look around my room and wonder why I'm here so damned early. What's today? Which classes do I have? Where am I? Would it matter if I didn't show up?

Determine it's Thursday: Odd Day. First period is  LA Honors 9, then two sections of poetry.

Honors is working on their Hero's Journey Nomination speech. Poetry is starting sonnets. Got it.

Sit at my desk and stare at the clipboard, which has a roster and grades handwritten on it.

Crap, I need to put these grades in infinite campus.  They're a week old. Honors kids get twitchy when grades are not entered.

Pick up clipboard, walk to desk top where You Tube has rolled past Front 242 to Nitzer Ebb. Open Infinite Campus.

Remember I need copies of speech rubrics.

Walk to copy room. Other Early Teacher, Science, is already there. She may have arrived before the custodians, I've never seen anyone make so many packets. It's possible she has a cot in the science room and has been here since last night.

Remember my phone. Where is my phone? Wait for copies, load them up.

Return to 1743.

Look for my phone.

Find my phone.

Put hippie bag in cabinet.

Cabinet is empty, all the Kleenex  and Styrofoam cups for tea have been used.

Need Kleenex, why aren't the kids bringing Kleenex?

Write "Room 1742 needs Kleenex STAT" on the board.

Close cabinet door.

Where did the clipboard go with my grades? Did I take it to the copy room? Look around the room.

My eye is caught by the  printed schedule attached to board by Oh No Mr. Bill magnet.  Poetry presentation dates are there. Who was doing Shakespeare? Did I check in with them? We're starting today. Hope they remember.

You Tube is now on Talking Heads.

Classroom pods have been moved because they watched a movie last class. Move desks back.
Stand at the window and watch the colors change as the sun rises. Hear myself telling my children and my students to find one beautiful thing a day. This is mine.

Remember grades.

Where's the clipboard?

Where's my phone?

Locate phone.

Where did I put the copies?

Open cabinet, clipboard is there. Much like the silver cat bowls, things just disappear and reappear in my classroom.

Sit at desk top,  begin to put in grades.

Colleague enters. She tells me how cute I look. Got three grades entered. We talk. Ask if I can steal everything she has on night because all I was planning was to read the book and watch Oprah. (I'm not a very good language arts teacher).

Turn music down so we don't have to shout over it. This is not Rock Island.

Colleague points out that my shirt is inside out. I laugh but do not fix it.

Where is my phone?

Colleague talks while I locate my phone.

Colleague departs to do her own thing.

Two kids who hang out on the couch in the morning enter: Boy Who Wears Green Crocs Every Day and Sometimes Dresses and his buddy, Asperger's.  They were in my LA Honors 9 last year and have found me again. Green Crocs wears colorful leggings and when he wears a dress, it's not just any dress, it is his grandmother's dress from the 1980's and could easily be found on Jennifer Grey in any movie she was in. They have a lively conversation about math and politics on the couch.

Check email, there is one from my second job later today regarding the set. I read it quickly and reply in a manner that sounds like I read it thoroughly.  I will find out later today that I did not read it thoroughly and my reply confused the producer.

Wonder what I was doing before colleague came in.

Grades. Yes. Put those in. Return to entering grades.

Where are the copies?

Students begin to arrive.

"What are we doing today?"
"Whatever I say."
Same exchange every day.
She smiles, drops off her backpack, returns to hallway to go find her friends.

As she leaves, my colleague from across the hall waves from his rolling chair. He parks in the hall every day to hand out "Quotes of the Day" to passing students.

Kid Not In This Class comes in. I tell her she's not in this class. She laughs. She just wanted to stop by and get some hot tea to start her day.

I have a hot tea kettle, cups and tea in my room. I neglected to mention that. She has a thermos with her, she does not need a cup. Which is good, the cabinet is empty. No cups, no kleenex, because everyone sucks and  doesn't contribute.

Z comes in smiling, telling me he has the wrong backpack because he forgot which classes he has today. This is his routine, he is in  LA Honors 9, I've never known him to bring the correct day's backpack.

I feel ya, Z. Buckle up.

Locate copies on windowsill. When did I walk over there?

Another Not In This Class kid comes in bearing Styrofoam cups. I thank her like she's Jesus feeding the masses. She apologizes for not having kleenex as well, she forgot. She only remembered cups because she works at Starbucks? Somehow those two things are related, but the cups she brings are not Starbucks cups. Whatever, I'm grateful someone remembered to contribute. She does not suck.

Couch Boys ask me about my Tienanmen Square poster. Did the guy in front of the tank get run over? I tell them, worse: he was beaten, dragged off and never heard from again. They contemplate this a moment, as Asperger's family were missionaries in China.

Second colleague drops in. States my classroom looks like the basement bedroom of some kid in the 80's.

Blink, blink. Well duh.

He laughs, departs.

8.26 first bell.

Couch Boys take their leave. Green crocs hugs me, thanks me. I'm always befuddled when this kid thanks me, I have no idea what he's thanking me for, but I'm grateful for his gratitude.

And so the day officially begins.



* The Case of the Disappearing Cat Bowl has become routine at our house. It simply disappears, and then reappears. No one in the house is locating the bowl under something, because the cats batted it there. Nobody sees it, it just disappears and then reappears when it feels like it.

**The Legally Blonde lamp is a funny, pink beaded side lamp I purchased for Elle's dorm room when we did the show. I kept it, and it was in my spare bathroom for a few years. It now adorns my desk. It is perched upon a black box full of black hearts, given to me by Jim Farrell when I was fired  (sorry, "involuntarily relocated")from all theatre and sentenced to language arts. I turn it on when I arrive. It is the universal symbol that I have arrived. Teachers look to see if my lamp is on before they enter.

Piggy Wiggy Oversees A Bathroom Remodel

                                                   I THINK I'M IN CHARGE!!! HOW THRILLING!
           There is a lot of activity in this house. Someone has torn out the bathroom, and is returning to tear out the bath tub. There is a bathroom that has been ripped out. This house is a bit of a mess, the items from the bathroom are now in the spare room, which also houses the cat box, cat food, massage table, spare bed and Christmas packaging. How do these people function? I feel much safer on the table among the Christmas trees.
            Also, what is the appeal of slobbering, furry, flightless pets? They have at least 27 in this house, and with the exception of the smallest canine who can jump three feet into the air, they have no capacity for flight. I know I would prefer a pet who could come and go as they please, allowing them to live their own best life the way they were born to. Maybe that's why these animals cannot fly, they were born to be grounded human sycophants. Which was judgy and negative, I apologize. But still. The hell?
                             

Open Adoption:How'd She Meet The Parents?

     A Piece Of The Unique Story

    When Harp found out she was pregnant, which she discovered when she passed out behind the wheel of her car,totaling two vehicles....she was in massage therapy school. Apparently, they warn you repeatedly that, due to the fact that you are receiving massages and your body is relaxed, you have a higher chance of getting pregnant. Apparently, she ignored that warning. Or, as our story unfolds, a more likely explanation is that God had other plans.
    As she was wrestling with the new information, she asked me about my friends Scott and Kelly. Scott is the theatre teacher at GW, and Kelly, his wife, worked with me when I had a theatre company for ten minutes when Harp was a baby. They had recently chosen to put themselves out there as adoptive parents. They had been signed with the company a few months, and I knew they were excited and scared, as all hopeful parents are. Harp and Genoa had done some makeup workshopping with Scott's students, and both had met Kelly. I texted Kelly and asked which agency they were with.
    Harp got on the company website and could not find Scott and Kelly. I encouraged her to look at all the prospective parents, as maybe there was a snag with Scott and Kelly.  She did, and then insisted I ask Kelly what was going on. I IM'd Kelly:

              "Hey, I don't see you guys on the adoption site."
               "I know, we're making a video to upload this weekend. It'll be up then."
                "OK, Harper will be reaching out to you."

    Right over Kelly's head.

    So Harp texted Kelly and they contacted the agency. They met and the rest is...Fox Alan Hasbrouck.

    Kelly has known Harp her whole life. I was pregnant with her when Kelly joined the theatre company.
     Scott has worked in Denver theatre for 100 years, we know all the same people. He became an educator a few years after I did.

     Apparently, that part of the story is what makes it unique.

    It felt like a set up from the beginning.

Open Adoption Holidays

  August 14, 2018, Harper Martin welcomed Fox Alan Hasbrouck into the world. His adoptive parents were down the hall, anxiously awaiting his entrance into their lives. After one... two? false labors, a lot of hospital time, some heavy drugs and a warning to the Hasbroucks that he would be arriving four weeks early...he arrived. Four weeks "early" at  36 weeks,7 pounds, 4 ounces. Doesn't sound like a preemie to me, nor did he look it.

   Even though it is an open adoption, no one on either side was allowed to share photos on social media. The official legal adoption day was set for 14 February, six months from his birth. Once it was all signed off on, social media would be allowed. Between here and there, however, both sides were welcome to share directly with friends and family. So we made sure we had a few photos, and of course the obligatory Halloween photo with me in my penguin costume.

  

And with Aunt Genoa.

Harper, Kelly and Scott set about their lives in an open adoption arrangement like none I have ever heard of. Harp was to be called "Harper Mom", and Fox will know her his entire life. She visits once a week. Harp was thanked profusely, and showered with Birth Mother Gifts that she keeps in a special place in her room. Photos are shared, as well as videos. Harp is welcome at their house at any time, but she always makes an appointment, calls ahead and doesn't want to "overstay" her welcome, which Kelly insists is impossible.

In November there was an adoption gathering of some kind that the Hasbroucks attended. In a series of surprising events that I don't understand, the Judge at the gathering called them in to discuss their "unique" open adoption. Apparently I'm not alone in thinking this is unprecedented. The Judge was so taken by their story, that the adoption was made final in that moment. No waiting until February, it was legal, now. Surprise!

The unfortunate part, of course, was that Harp was not at the gathering and felt left out. She had not intended to attend, as it was for the adoptive parents , but that did not lessen the impact. As sad as she was, she was also happy that everything was moving sooner than expected. But she was still understandably sad, and when Thanksgiving arrived and she could not see Fox due to his many adoring fans, she became sadder. But having pulled herself through the nastiest postpartum depression I have ever experienced, she learned tools to deal with overwhelming feelings. With psych tools, affirmations and meds she chose to solider through: she got drunk and put Easter eggs on the Christmas tree that we were decorating.

And that's how you do it.

We knew the schedule would be tight, so we did not try to see him over Christmas. Instead, Jim arranged for the Wyckoffs and the Martins to gather at a small restaurant in Lakewood on the 29th. For the first time in two years, we had everyone together. We also had the Hasbroucks, and a new blended family was created. Fox was danced around the table by Scott, held by his birth grandparents--two of whom were meeting him for the first time. He was showered with onesies, and the Hasbrouck family gifted us with framed photos of Fox. The evening was relaxed and comfortable.

         There was so much love at this table. Nobody felt rushed or pressured, we just ate and chatted and reconnected. Family is everything. I'm not sure I got that until just now. Whatever family means, it is everything. And now, ours has expanded and Fox is one lucky kid. He has twice the family love that most kids have. And we have Harper to thank for it. Harper who endured, Harper who graduated from Massage Therapy school while pregnant and started her career. Harper who beat postpartum and being ghosted by Fox's father. Harper who chose adoption because she knew it was what was right for her son.
       Thank you, Harp.